


Midnight

by redtrouble



Category: Demonheart (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 04:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15235029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtrouble/pseuds/redtrouble
Summary: Bright watches Brash sleep. Bright POV, (borderline) NSFW.





	Midnight

She watches him sleep and smiles. A warm breeze blows in from the open windows, kicking up the white curtains and tousling his blond hair. Moonlight filters through the sheer fabric and casts him in a dramatic light. She can see every defining line of muscle in his arms and thighs, across his chest and abs and hips. He lies naked beside her, one hand on his torso, the sheet covering only his feet.

He is so big compared to her. Tall and wide and thick with strength, like a statue carved from stone. His chest is matted with dark blond hair but she can still see the detail beneath. His body is peppered with scars and she knows he finds them unattractive, believes she does as well, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. They make her ache with sorrow when she thinks of how he suffered, swell with pride because he was strong to have survived, even hot with lust because his tenacity is so sexy. She adores his body, scars and all.

She looks at the cords of his neck, his sturdy jaw ghosted with stubble, and the scar that covers his eye. He hates this scar the most, the eye that is permanently black because of it. It frightens people and he enjoys their fear but not the cause of it. He thinks it scares her but it does not. He thinks she finds him ugly but she does not. He is no soft lord or untested soldier. He is not beautiful and she does not wish he was. He is weathered and rugged and brutish, and he makes her heart skip beats, her inner thighs thrum with desire.

Her eyes drift along his body, admiring his every part. That mouth that scolds her, kisses her, loves her. The arms that hold her, fight for her. The body that embraces her, shields her. The hands that touch her, caress her, brush her hair. His manhood that fills her, completes her, brings her absolute ecstasy. His powerful legs that stand when she cannot, the knee where she sits when the ground is wet or muddy. She is in awe of him and all of his parts.

She is in awe of how he cares for her.

She listens to his gentle breathing, observes the rise and fall of his chest. They have been running for a long time and he has gone many days without sleep to protect her. He sacrifices so much for her and she never has to ask. He is the kindest person she knows, and he would laugh if she told him that. He would bark out something cruel and insulting, but his kindnesses are in his actions. She has had enough of kind words from false men. It is his actions that mean something, mean everything.

And he means everything to her. He is older. He is damaged. He has been a bad man to many people. He is a killer. But he is selfless. Her heart aches to know how he has suffered. It is not the bodily scars that bother her. It is the emotional ones that destroy her. She wants nothing more than to heal him but even she is not so naïve. So if every day that she wakes beside him, he smiles, she is content.

She will face down any of his demons. She will contend with every ounce of his evil. She will forgive him any sin. She loves him more than words can convey. She will give him all of herself until she dies her final death and she will hope he understands that he was worthy.

He stirs and opens his eyes. When he sees her watching him, he grins. She loves his grins, that dangerous and alluring twist of his mouth. It causes her stomach to knot with anticipation.

“Watching me sleep, kitten?” he asks, and his voice is raspy from sleep. She smiles and nods. “If you wanted my cock so bad, you should have woken me.”

He is teasing her but she does want him. She wants him more than anything.

“Yes, Sir…” She lets the silk tunic slide off her shoulders as she straddles him. He is surprised at first but his hands immediately reach for her as surprise gives way to desire and his eyes darken with it. The rough pads of his fingertips glide over her hips and thighs. She feels his manhood harden beneath her.

They have already made love tonight but she wants him again. He has never turned her down. He always wants her. Always.

He growls in the back of his throat, anxious to claim her. His noises turn her on. He doesn’t often speak when they are making love but, when he does, he drives her wild. His hoarse, ragged voice makes her feel as though she is melting.

“Brash,” she whispers and he looks at her, waiting for her words, her commands if she has any. She says the words she knows mean the most to him. “I love you.” And his face tightens with emotion so raw, she wonders if she will be able to walk in the morning. Then she says the words she knows will make him crazy. “I want you.” He snarls with desire and grasps her so hard that she knows that she will bruise.

Her body is covered with bruises, but not because anyone has ever hurt her. He has never let anyone hurt her since they ran away from Crows. They are bruises born of his love-making, markers of pleasure. She cherishes these marks, especially when he kisses them with apology. She tells him not to regret them because they are proof he makes her feel so good, but he still is gentle with her for a whole day after.

She sighs as his hips rise to meet her and she sinks onto him. That first plunge always takes her breath away, completes her. The warm breeze caresses her skin gently as his hard hands roughly roam over her, a juxtaposition of the senses. The dance of silver moonlight and shadow makes a monster and a man out of him with every rise and fall of her body, every flutter of the curtains.

They lose themselves in one another. Her sense of self shatters, taking her shyness and uncertainty with it. She chases their pleasure without embarrassment, without reservation, but with utter abandon.

He empties himself inside of her with a shudder and rapture courses through them. A post-euphoric sense of sadness whispers on the breeze, reminding them that her womb is shriveled and his seed is fruitless, and they mourn that son or daughter they will never share, a child they did not know they wanted until they found each other. And then the grief passes like the illness of a nightmare and he gathers her in his arms.

They are hot and sweaty but they would not be parted for anything. She lies on top of him, her head in the crook of his shoulder, his chin atop her crown, and he holds her close as they catch their breath.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he says huskily and the rumble of his voice vibrates in her chest.

She lifts her head to kiss him and gently strokes his face, the scar he hates. She cannot convince him that, in this world of seductive demons and beautiful soldiers, he is the sexiest man she has ever seen, cannot convince him no matter how much she craves him. And she does, and he is.

He tangles his fingers into her hair that he loves so much, kissing her fully, open-mouthed and wet and consuming. They may yet make love again before the sun finishes rising. But night is not yet done and he has not yet slept enough. She kisses his cheeks, his eyelids, and bids him sleep awhile longer. Soon, the gentle rise and fall of his chest and his soft breathing tells her he is resting.

She is his perfect kitten and he is her staunch protector. Her best friend. Her lover. She adores him more than she could ever say, so she watches him sleep and smiles.


End file.
